


Off the Precipice

by ponderinfrustration



Category: Le Fantôme de l'Opéra | Phantom of the Opera & Related Fandoms, Le Fantôme de l'Opéra | Phantom of the Opera - Gaston Leroux
Genre: Anger, Dissociation, F/M, Meltdown, Rage, implied threats of violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-06-30
Updated: 2016-06-30
Packaged: 2018-07-19 06:01:06
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 496
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7347991
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ponderinfrustration/pseuds/ponderinfrustration
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The managers have disobeyed him yet again, and Erik is angry.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Off the Precipice

**Author's Note:**

> A/N: Requested once by rienerose after having had a difficult day.

How dare they, _how dare they_ , after all he's done for them? Every bit of effort and work and agony, and now they do this? Who do they think they are? Have they learned nothing at all? If he has to listen to that- that _thing_ one more time he might _actually_ kill someone.

He has promised not to do so, he remembers just as his fingers wrap around his lasso, unless in self-defence, but surely she'll understand if it's in defence of his _sanity_ and her career. Goddammit he _warned_ them, in explicit terms that they could not possibly misinterpret, that if they were to do such a thing then he would have to take serious action. Did they seriously think that he might be _joking_? When has he ever been known to _joke_ about something so very serious?

If he can't kill them, slowly and painfully, then he will have to write them a letter. A letter in highly _considered_ terms expressing his displeasure and his requirement that they _fix this mess immediately_.

The pen scratches straight through the paper of the first draft, and he viciously tears it into minute pieces, throwing it into the fire and not waiting to watch the edges curl blackly into themselves before commencing the next one. That one, too, meets a similar fate, and his vial of ink meets the wall, shattering into crimson-stained shards. Pushing himself back from the table and sending his papers flying, he swirls out of the room, takes the steps two at a time, and very nearly pushes a pale Christine out of his way before he recognises her and slips past.

In minutes he is in the managers' office, and what exactly he says he does not re-call with the effort to not strangle both of them, though their panicked, emphatic nods and whimpered assurances of "yes, sir, anything you say, sir, our deepest apologies, sir" follow him back down the stairs and across the lake.

It is easier to breathe, now, the trembling slowly abating from his hands as he poles his way across the water. The constricting bands of iron around his chest have loosened, fallen away as he fled the office, and even now it all seems a haze, a wave of numbness spreading through his blood, into his brain and his fingers and his heart. He steps onto the bank, and Christine rushes into his arms, burying herself in him.

It takes a moment for her words to filter through to him, muffled as they are by his waistcoat, but he catches, "…didn't kill them, did…" and it's enough for him to piece together what she means, even if his mouth refuses to speak the words. She pulls back, and looks him straight in the eye, pleading with him for an answer but the words won't come and all he can do is shake his head. She shudders, and sighs, and kisses his bare cheek. "Thank God."


End file.
